THE Queen was facing an audience of about 800 people at the reception when she came to speak — and the first thing she did was to announce the winner of the Grand National.

“I have two very important announcements to make,” she said. “I know you will want to know who was the winner of the Grand National. It was Hedgehunter.”

This was met with immense applause, though some of us clearly had not had our money on the right horse.

Then, referring to Charles and Camilla, she added: “Having cleared Becher’s Brook and the Chair the happy couple are now in the winners’ enclosure.”

There was a huge roar of approval. Very unmonarchical. Heads of state were present; people from many different religions; the people from his charitable trusts stood alongside the great and the good, the aristocrats and the arrivistes like myself. But the roar of approval was very like your favourite team scoring the winning goal in a cup final.

This was the culmination of a magnificent ceremony. The speech of Prince Charles was, as those who know him expected, generous, widespread and comprehensive in its references. It probably fails to register with the general public quite how democratic he genuinely is.

The day for me had three acts, the first being getting there. I bought a pork pie at a butcher’s to sustain me from the time I was supposed to get there (mightily early) until the time I would arrive for Her Majesty the Queen’s canapés and wine. It was a very good pork pie indeed.

When I got there I found the great gangs of England were present. In the portable lavatory I was met by Nicholas Soames, who greeted everyone with booming massive tones of “Hello Rupert”, “Hello colonel”, “Hello general”.

We were then motored up to the castle in small white buses. It is quite wonderful that this collection of people in the most magnificent clothes, with a jungle of hats — some like birds’ nests, some like shrubbery and rhododendrons, some like camouflage that soldiers use in heavily wooded country — went up to the castle in buses.

Once at St George’s Chapel we were chastened by the magnificence of the place. It became a social gathering. The aristocrats greeted the aristocrats, tall persons with tall titles and tall tales to tell each other. I was with the media bunch, and met Ronny Harwood, the playwright, Kenneth Branagh and Richard E Grant.

Grey Gowrie was there, having recovered from so many illnesses and looking magnificently well. Of course, being Grey Gowrie the poet, who was himself brought up in Windsor Castle, this was home from home for him. The first thing he said to me was: “Andrew Motion’s poem on the marriage is not at all bad.”

We then sat down and went through the blessing. Afterwards I spoke to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who said it was the first blessing he had conducted.

Prince Charles had chosen the words from the old text of the prayer book, as you would expect. The hymns were wonderfully singable, even in my register, and the readings were excellent, particularly Timothy West’s reading of Wordsworth’s Ode on Immortality.

Everybody thought the best thing in the afternoon was the singing of the credo in Greek, which moved many people nearly to tears. But for me the best part was when the archbishop asked: do you, his relatives, his friends and supporters, will you support the prince in his marriage vows and his loyalty for the rest of his life? The words boomed out in reply: “We will.” It sounded like an oath of allegiance that took us back to Henry V, back to King Alfred. It was a magnificent “We will”, a statement of support, and it was what everybody felt they needed.

The third act in all this, after the arrival and ceremony, was the reception. We piled into the castle. Camilla looked great in a flowing gown, though a little drawn. I believe she hasn’t been tremendously well recently.

When we talked she simply said: “I just can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

Charles said that the best present he had received was from Cumbria, where farmers had signed a book of pictures and tributes because of his work after the foot and mouth outbreak. He was genuine about this, as he is about most things.

The prince proposed five toasts, and apologised to his parents for the extra trouble and expense he had caused by the postponement of the wedding. He paid tribute to his father-in-law and to his sons and his “loyal and trusted” friends and to my “darling Camilla”.

There was a flash of humour in a series of toasts where he said, to cheers, words along the lines of: up to my parents, up to my sons, up to my darling Camilla and — jokingly — down with the British press.

After that, outside, the pipers came down the path, which always stirs the blood of a northern person. Then, in wonderfully English fashion, this congregation of aristocrats, stars, old friends and colleagues queued up for little white buses to take us back to the car park.

What a day and what a sight to see the two of them together. When they came down from the altar all you wanted to say as they walked out of the west door was that the two of them looked absolutely content and happy. They were home.

That was a scene few thought they would ever witness: the Queen beaming at Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall and possible future queen, as she paused beside her new husband on the steps of the chapel.

Clearly we witnessed, and everybody who tuned in on television or radio witnessed, the end of a chapter. It’s been turbulent, it’s been tragic and it’s been in every private and public way awful. But this was the end of that chapter. Above all, what this ceremony did was to turn the page to a new beginning.

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